


a blaze of light in every word

by nightstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 8.23 Coda, Angst, M/M, Season 9 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 08:57:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightstiel/pseuds/nightstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you ever miss the Apocalypse, Cas?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	a blaze of light in every word

Dean thinks he won’t ever look at a starry sky the same way. Not since the angel fiasco. Now you can never know if another flying monkey won’t come tumbling down from the sky and damage the impala, the way Cas once did with Sam’s stupid car.

He needs a break and fresh air, and this means a bottle of beer (they are never out of beer these days, thanks to Cas; the angel not only did acquire taste for coffee, but for beer as well. The Righteous Man setting a prime example for a newly humanized angel) and the hood of the impala.

They are researching; it’s what they usually do these days. Among reports of “unseen phenomenon” it’s more difficult than ever to find a snippet of information that sounds like them, so instead, they breathe in dust and mold from the archives and Dean can’t stand the division that has formed so naturally – Sam geeking out on his own and Dean pressed between the shelves and Castiel, hands reaching and brushing, awkward touches and one, purely accidental, smack on the angels ass. 

It’s unbearable because it’s old.

It’s unbearable because it reminds Dean of times when the world was ending and coming to an end and the pull against the tide was all that was and it was easy; desperation and the end of times in an excuse for anything, really. Last night on earth was only a beginning; foggy windows and sweat dripping down on the backseat of his car, blasphemy taking the form of his name rolling off the angelic lips through toe-curling pleasure. It was a comfort and a consolation and it was never supposed to be anything more than this, but of course it would have been too easy. Apocalypse has left Dean bereft of his brother and with a heart slightly cracked, but not broken.

The shattering came later, in a blaze of a ring of holy fire.

In a glow of a million of thousands of souls, of a lake and dreams dripping black afterwards. On a porch of a pretty house in Colorado, a dream Dean might have once head. Under the dull light of hospital lamps breaking and going out, helpless smiles and anger so bitter he wanted to cry. In another realm, feral but pure.

In a moment of clarity by the river, Dean knew what he wanted; he wanted to go home and he wanted to go _back,_ to where it was unbroken.

Like everything, it slipped out of his fingers when Cas let go of his hand.

“I thought you’d be here.” Cas emerges from a bunker, one bottle in each hand. “I have brought a refill.”

“Thanks.” Dean moves to the left, allowing space for Cas to sit next to him. He hasn’t even noticed that he had dried his bottle and turns his head away to smile. Always so thoughtful of the little things, reckless when it comes to the big ones.

“Do you ever miss the Apocalypse, Cas?,” he drawls, turning to Cas to clink their bottles. Confusion and surprise flash across Castiel’s face and he falls silent, twirling the bottle in his hands between sips, small and contained. There’s a sideways glance, a sigh and trepidation clutching at Dean’s chest. Maybe Cas doesn’t even remember. Maybe it’s been forgotten and it was foolish to think it had any significance.

“Well, when I say “the Apocalypse” I mean—“

“I know what you have in mind, Dean.” Cas sets the bottle down, hands pressed down on his thighs now. “And I do.”

Good. Good. Cas knows what he means and it feels familiar again; comfortable silence wrapped in need of presence and it’s too easy to press a kiss to Castiel’s downturned lips, tasting the bitter alcohol; but in this universe a kiss isn’t a magic spell to make things fine and it burns, the stiffness of Cas’s mouth, the familiar drag of the stubble on his chin suddenly scraping his skin and Dean pulls away, still inches from Castiel's head. They're holding their breath; there's no telling what will happen if they don't. 

“I guess you don’t, after all,” Dean says and laughs bitterly. Helplessness seizes him for a second and the throws a bottle to the ground; it doesn't feel good, just shameful. He drags his hand down his face.There’s a glass shard on his finger and it cuts his lower lip. It’s a good distraction, the rusty taste of blood on his tongue, until he remembers that one time when Cas had bit down on his lip too hard one time, overwhelmed at Dean's fingers taking him apart, one by one, turning an angel of the Lord into a mess of sweat and come. 

Dean risks a look at Cas and he looks broken; his shoulders seem to sag more, now that his wings have been clipped and there’s a greater weariness to his movements. If that’s how humans look to angels, no wonder they thought so little of them.

But Dean still yearns, maybe even more, now that Cas is finally on the same plane; not otherwordly and barely anchored to the ground by a thin thread of their not-so-profound, as it seems, bond. His eyes are closed, hands fisted on his thighs. There’s dryness in Dean’s throat and no beer to soothe it.

“Why not?”

Castiel looks at him, lips thinned and firm. “I won’t break it. Not this. Not again.”

“We can be alright this time, Cas.” Doesn’t say: _You didn’t break it on your own._

“What makes you think that, Dean? After everything that I’ve done?”  Doesn’t say: _After everything I’ve done to you. After all the times I've left you._

“Well, for what it’s worth,  we both still got here.” _And it took everything._ “We can figure this out.”

Castiel stands up and Dean can’t move as he walks over; places his hands, soft like they should never be on Dean’s cheeks, the most tender touch Dean has received ever since he was four. He closes his eyes, poised, waiting to come undone; even if he wants to claw at those hands, grab Cas by his forearms and pull him down, close, pin him to the hood of the car and pour his determination into every kiss and every thrust of his hips like he used to.

He doesn’t.

Castiel kisses his temple, reverent, unhurried, lips chapped.

“I’m sorry, Dean.” A pause, another kiss. “For everything.”

And, “Please get back inside soon, it’s getting cold.”

It will take everything to get them back there again.

 


End file.
